


Flash Poems

by marigorbital



Category: Free!
Genre: M/M, bartender/poet AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 04:10:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3343196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marigorbital/pseuds/marigorbital
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every Thursday night, Ai goes to a bar to write little poems on paper napkins and watch a bartender do tricks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flash Poems

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt 4 for Momotori Week: Reactions. 
> 
> Just a little bartender/poet AU. 
> 
> Enjoy.

_today_

_I discovered a whole new_

_universe, just after he said_

_hello_

-

There was this bartender who could mix drinks facing backwards, who could pour your martini into its glass without ever having to look behind him, who could entertain the entire bar without even looking over his shoulder. They called him the Japanese Sea Otter of the Bar, not because he did everything backwards, but because he also broke a lot of glasses.

His name was Momotarou Mikoshiba and he was the only reason Ai ever came to the bar every Thursday night in the first place, besides the open mic night for those that dabbled in poetry.

“The usual, Nitori-senpai?” said Momotarou, his elbows leaning against the edge of the bar as he tilted his head to the side to face Ai, who was slightly caught off guard.

“Oh, uh, yeah. And… you don’t have to call me _senpai_ , you know,” Ai said, who once mentioned his age to Momo and found out he was a year older than the otter boy, which wasn’t much of a surprise. “It’s not as if we’re in school.”

As Momo took out the vodka, cream, and Kahlua to serve Ai’s typical White Russian, he shrugged his shoulders and then passed a white napkin square to Ai as he said, “I’ve never had someone to call senpai. Won’t you be mine?”

Sometimes Ai wondered if this was flirting.

-

_your name shouldn’t taste so sweet when I say it,_

_with a peach aftertaste that makes me_

_wish I’d have you again_

_at midnight_

_-_

Every Thursday evening, Ai would scribble little flash poems on the white paper napkins Momo gave him and would always end up shoving them in his pockets when he was done. Rarely did he ever keep them, unless they were about the bartender who spoke with him and who would always ask, “Why don’t you ever share what you write up on stage?”

It did look strange that Ai would continue to return to a poetry event week after week, writing to himself, but never participating with the rest of the crowd in the dimly lit setting. But that’s how he was; he wrote many things to himself, kept a journal, doodled in his notebooks, wrote poetry on paper napkins. It didn’t matter that no one read them.

“I just like listening,” Ai answered, shoving his latest poem in his pocket before taking a sip of his drink.

“I want to hear your stuff. You should go up there.”

He said this of course while dazzling the crowd, shaking a cocktail of liquors behind him as he spread out four square short-glasses in a row with maraschino cherries bedded at the bottom of each glass. Girls came to fawn over the boy wonder who gingerly made drinks with closed eyes, who spun in circles as he placed ice cubes in people’s Scotch, who greeted everyone, but only seemed to talk to the silver shadow at the corner of the bar.

“Come on, _please,_ ” Momo said, taking the excuse to wipe the bar clean by the timid poet as a way of continuing the conversation. “Drinks on me, if you do.”

“That’s all right, really.”

“Then at least tell me what you wrote on the napkin.”

Ai immediately replied, “Definitely not.”

-

_sometimes I wonder if I am just merely the_

_shadow to your light, or if I will only see_

_your sun set instead of your sun rise_

_but even the moon gets lucky, no?_

-

“Okay, how about this,” Momo said, with a grin creeping up his face as he proposed the idea, “How about I tell _you_ a poem, and you tell me one. Doesn’t have to be from your napkin or anything in the past, just whatever.”

There were so many distractions that could have saved Ai at this moment, what with college students reciting their slam poems about current times and pretentious literature enthusiasts remarking the days of Allen Ginsberg as if they were there to witness his howling first-hand. There were girls pining after the cute bartender who did tricks, and they probably would have done anything to get even a fraction of attention the redheaded darling was giving some petite guy with a mole on his cheek.

But Ai didn’t want to think himself as anything special.

“Here’s mine,” Momo started, “Uh… Roses are red, violets are blue, I serve drinks at a bar, now tell me something about _you!_ ”

But who knows, maybe he was.

So Ai said _okay_ and recited the poem on his napkin anyway.

-

_how do you not burn when you are clearly fire?_

_my lungs swell_

_ready for smoke, but you keep_

_giving me fresh air_

-

“Who was that about?” Momo asked, captivated, “Because that was nice, really…”

He looked away, almost embarrassed. It wasn’t as if he expected a lousy poem to come from the mysterious Nitori-senpai he was getting to know on a weekly basis, but he wondered who inspired such passion. And why did it bother him?

“Um.” Ai blushed. “You.”

How was Momo supposed to react?

-

_today_

_I learned your lips taste like your name_

_a peach aftertaste that makes me_

_forget I’m not dreaming_


End file.
